The Gift Of The Gun

THE GIFT OF THE GUN

A tenebrous merry-go-round about a scintillating narration of a dejected, precocious gun for hire, and his inapt affiliation with a deranged brainsick manslayer.

PROLOGUE A Suave, suit-wearing, rare breed

The Starlight Inn. Reasonable, aboveboard rates. The flickering sign that overlooks coming and going transit says so. At the moment, before it winds-up it's gaudy, modernized do up, it's typical customers are randy, stiff dick business men and slippery bitch wrinkle streetwalkers that have been outlawed from the LaQuinta. The wallpaper consists of stale, hackneyed sea greens and eggshell whites. The bathrooms, like the niche, have rusted padlocks that fasten and bar free passage. Inside the bathrooms, guests are provided with convenient, babyish deodorizers and cleansers, that no bedfellower should give a fuck about. They're just for convenience. Short-term residential roadhouses are jam-packed with serviceable, user-friendly consumer needs. I'm squating in room 133 on the fourth floor in the shithole. I ask myself, what is beneficial to me, the consumer? I examine around, blinded by the overclouded black of the eve. The only at hand aglow is the burning blaze of tobacco flaring from my cigarette. Anyway, what is convenient in room 133? Babyish deodorizers and cleansers? No. An aftermarketed 27" television with basic cable? No. A twelve-hundred page novel about wine and miracles crammed in the night stand? No. The man and woman in room 134, fornicatng and making merry with the lazy man's wank. Yes. Don't get me wrong, i'm not a frustrated debauchee. The walls in this shoddy motel are so unsubstantial, a bullet can penetrate right through them. If I wait till the downright moment, when the streetwalker reaches her climax, I can crunch the trigger. The man is a lardy flab of pudge rolls, leading me to rely on that he's a bottom fucker. Through the delicate walls, his groans babble muffled, much more smothered than the streetwalker's. She's 6'2", that's together with thrift store stilettos. Subtract the additional twenty-five centimeters, and I should disengage the bullet about sixty inches up from the floor base. Luckily, her blaring, raucous pants will indicate her clear-cut position. There will be a adequately blustering pop, and fat fucker will eyeball his streetwalking bitch wrinkle collapse with rag doll physics, through a tint of crimson. His disorientation

and consternation will closeout the time i need to make onslaught to him, so i can wrap-up the prearrangement. The husky jelly-belly i'm assigned to polish off, his name isNevermind. You know what? Maybe I should start over. I think i will. Death. The cure for life. The one thing that, being absolutely relentless and inevitable, you need not worry about. Many call it the end. Others, mostly prayerful, bornagain simpletons, will call it the beginning. I call it my wreck of chaotic ravage. It's when I shall allow my filthy, diminshing, shrunken carcass of weathered bones impart ruination on materialistic generations by fluttering my virulent, diminutive dust cells into their nasal cavaties. I am a universal scapegoat. I breathe smoke. Who am I? My name is Harry Walken. and it's about time for me to retire. Why do I do what I do? Why do I make futile attempts, only to enrich the satisfaction of people with no sense of properiety, decency, or discretion? Simple. It hides my neurotic traits. Socks. I love my socks. Instead of wasting my hard-earned franklins on useful consumer needs, i buy lousey socks. Relatives even buy me foot garmets for the holidays. It's pathetic. That's right. A comfortable, woven hoisery that encloses the foot and should not be used otherwise. Otherwise meaning, young, ruttish cock-fapping frankfurts that don't want to clean up their spurt-jerk sauce. Otherwise meaning, the fashionably-challenged jewish cultural phenomenom of socks and open-toed sandals. Go ahead. Say it. I know it's an obsession. Prescription drugs and tender hugs... nothing can hide the fact, that what i do, places me in between the devil and the deep blue sea. Imagine waking up every morning and seeing a murderer in the mirror. Imagine your life indulged in absolute hell because you've placed the wrongs before the rights. Imagine a gun being your only friend. The devil finds work for idle hands, and i chose to be this triggerman. Other than depriving others from life, obsessing is another thing I'm good at. Like smoking. I've smoked more coffin nails than the majority of the European population. Why do non-smokers tell me that smoking is bad? I already know this, and furthermore, i don't give two shakes of a stubborn shit. I would rather die by choice, and I'm not a fanatic when it comes to tight-fisted dust bags that move to Flordia. Flordia. God's waiting room. Anyway, the average person uses approximtely fifty-seven sheets of toilet

paper each day. I challenged this. Twenty-two. Six of the sheets were used to clean up a poorly executed aim. See? Obsessive. Or maybe I'm just lazy and like to think I'm dedicated. Make a resonant sound like artillery here. Explosion. I'm non compos mentis. I don't acknowledge the jangle of my telephone. If it rings, i most likely never pay dirt. I'm a call back kinda' feller. I let the machine do all of the work. It's a keen move, considering my profession. "You have four unheard messages. First unheard message;" "Mr. Walken, this is Zhai Ai Liu from House Special Heaven. Home of the best, cheap wholesale, and reheated globs of MSG that American Chinese food has to offer! I am calling regarding the complaint on your recent take-out order. I give you my sincerest apology, and i am proud to offer you two free wonton hotdogs with your next order. So long now, and remember, man with one chopstick go hungry!" Mr. Liu refuses to offer Chinese-language menus to non-Ching Chong customers. So, if you want to know the delicates in your meal, like liver, chicken feet, or a able-bodied cat gall, hopscotch away from House Special Heaven. "Second unheard message;" "Hey Harry. It's Eddie in 203. I partied way too much last night. I've been bowing before the Porcelain God all morning. I'm really goin' down. Wet cheeks, chronic burn, mean that can't abide without vocal existence. It's brutal. Give me a call man." Eddie is the statement of meaning for hard drinker. I came into acquaintance with him at the Alcoholic Savant pub. Turns out, he hangs his trucker hat in 203, right atop my rental. He lives with his senile, decrepit grandmother, and he would rather drink irish moonshine than get a blowjob. "Third unheard message;" "Hey Harry. It's me." ... ... ... "I was at ShoppeStock yesterday... the many times we went... together. Remember the time you tried to put a candy bar on layaway? You were so determined. Or, remember when you set all of the alarm clocks in housewares to go off at five minute intervals? It's the little things, right? ... ... ... "I miss you." I'll explain later.

"Fourth unheard message;" "Hey. It's Sergio. You owe me. The dead drop is the abandoned woman's womb. Upper level. Check the honcho's office." "You have no unheard messages."

PART ONE The Barbarous Blunderfuck

Sergio... One time, this golden-brown street-walkin' tart convinced Sergio that she was carrying his fuck child. He was offended and bowled down by the idea, so he did what he thought was necessary. Hazardous cleansing compounds. Toxoplasmosis from cat feces. Poorly ventilated living space. She was dead in a week. I can imagine what the butterball, grungy fucker is doing right now. Quite possibly popping some delicous puffs of buttery goodness, while he's building up to torment some helpless dumb ignoramus. I'm not going to lie, Sergio is fat. He compresses larder and chow into his mouth, pretty much until he chokes. I'm guessing misfortunate ignoramus is getting pattered with goopy, munched and scrunched crumbs, while Sergio vegetates. Sergio Hernandez. He's the one that would be laughing uncontrollably, deliberately with rhythmic spasms at a burial ceramony, while the dejected, melancholy widow sends her loved-one a final prayer. He's completely irrational. He's entirely unreasonable, and lacks any sense of consequence for his actions. Goodbye ignoramus. I can imagine an afflictive shot to the testicles, depriving the poor feller from his pigeonhearted manfulness, followed by a deleterious bullet to the cerebral cortex. I can also imagine Sergio is still rejoicing in his buttery goodness. Fat fuck. Ballistic trauma... An estimated five-hundred thousand injuries are sustained periodically from the

use of a bang-bang. Roughly two-hundred thousand are prolonged non-conflict related. And approximately .03 percent of two-hundred thousand is the assiduous labor of Sergio Hernandez. Sergio Hernandez. A mass of lard that prides on gruff, unmannerly enslavements and fixations. His adored accessories are tools of torture, Mr. Babaloo, and his ivory green canopy upholstered sofa. He disorganizes himself on the unkempt, unattractive sofa with Mr. Babaloo, an Old English muzzled face Pug. The two of them, with their rotund, cobby bodies, dally themselves on the unsightly sofa, everyday, tensely awaiting 3 p.m. 3 p.m. is the start-off of "Rascally Odd Chums". "Rascally Odd Chums" is a trendy, favored cartoon featuring a brainsick, anthropomorphic rabbit, and a brainless malevolent carrot. Every episode typically attempts to drive TV rating guidlines to the greatest extent. Let's say, if you want to witness an angry, atrocious cottontail impact a 18-inch 42 cc 2-cycle gas anti-vibration chainsaw up a desirous carrot's ass, than "Rascally Odd Chums" would be the program to check out. Sergio Hernandez can never finish a full episode. What he has isn't an obsession. It's a new, expansive spectrum. It's something, not even his permutation of Adderall and Xanax can pass over. It's above and moreover normal, expected limits. It's beyond any circumstances. Sergio is convinced, adored Bootsie Bunny and darling Crouton carrot are the brain-children of his bygone days. He thinks the show is his robbed masterpiece. His stolen work. The thing is, I've known Hernandez just shy of a decade now. Before he was a bats-in-the-belfry gun for hire, he was a chicken sexer in Mexico. He was one of those muchachos that had to determine the sex of baby chicks, and segregate them. He would put the hatchlings on the track prematurely, and allowed them to recieve the proper optimal nurishment. It's a far stretch from being a professional manslayer. Only in the last several months, "Rascally Odd Chums" became his antic, peculiar fetish. Now, Sergio Hernandez wants the creator, Jamie Lester Morts, a lifeless extinction pushing daisies. Fuck. The abandoned woman's womb. Imitation Infants manufacturing plant. The old industrial building where clammy, perspiring illegals manufactured vinyl baby dolls, enhanced to resemble human babies. Heat set paints and oils. Fine mohair and/or human hair. Magnetically attatched umbilical cord. Equipped with a battery-powered heartbeat simulator. It's actually quite disturbing. Besides being popular amoung sexually promiscuous, sloven pre-teens, that need to be slapped with a feminism lesson, the dolls are also a favorite collector

item for adult females with secluded ovaries. The factory smells like foul, filthy thermal socks doused in godawful, gunky sauerkraut. It's not a pleasant place. Two years ago, Raymond Kalmbach, the fifty-three year old foreman of this factory, had apparently commited suicide. It was just days after enraged wholesalers blamed Imitation Infants for the recall of one-million dolls. The dolls imbilical cord violated CPSC's possibility of choking threat injury regulation... or something like that. The thing is, Raymond Kalmbach didn't commit suicide. I know this, because i killed him. When it comes to suicide, sixty-four percent of men and forty percent of women make a bang-bang their death of choice, because it's brief and relatively painless. There's a lot i have to theorize when i make a firearm murder look like the deliberate taking of one's own life. The injury location. Distance of weapon from body. The angle. Number of shots fired. Gunpowder residue. Evidence of struggle. Etc. Etc. Etc. Being a professional murderer isn't effortless, trouble-free work, you know? Sergio's message said, "The dead drop is the abandoned woman's womb. Upper level. Check the honcho's office." The honcho's office being Raymond Kalmbach's workstation. An arrangement of corroded, battered lockers line the rearmost wall in the office. Mr. Kalmbach's compartment is stained with rotted gore juice in the form of an X. Sonuvabitch. Fuck. Mother fucker! Inside the disfigured, bloody compartment was the spoiled, wasted away corpse of Raymond Kalmbach. Fashioned with a custom-made, paper plate mask of Bootsie Bunny, and a crinkled, rucked note that read;

Harry, You owe me. Your marked pigeon is Jamie Lester Morts. He's in town for animation-expo international. This is the perfect opportunity. He's staying in room 134 at the Starlight Inn. Remember, if you do what's necessary, the odds are in your favor.

-Sergio Sound familiar? Lardy flab of pudge fucking thrift store stilettos? We'll reminisce about that later. Nausea. Clumsiness. Migraines. Depersonalization. Laggard dawns. He probably even had a hard-on when he wrote this. He can't do it himself, because Sergio is a painstalking, narcissistic fuck. I should have never asked him for that favor a month ago...

PART TWO 30.4368499 Days Ago

"Who's he talking to?" I asked Sergio. We were lounged on the Cairo Contemporary Track Arm Recliners. Bi-cast leather irritates me. It's painful and rough, and it makes that chafed noise with the smallest, insignificant move. "Don't know," Sergio shot back with a mouthful of Asadero cheese. Gnawing through the creamy, smooth texture, he progressed with low and inarticulate murmur. "So far all I've seen is bad-tempured exchange and have heard nothing but purling squabble." Low, continuous sound of two men buzzing in the cookery. Constant clicking sound of the handcrafted heirloom quality grandfather clock. The bothersome chawing of Asadero. I frown upon that awkward absence of speak. I lit a cigarette. "So what's new? How was the vacation?" Sergio was remote for a month visiting his stout, bad-off Auntie in Toluca. I didn't care how his vacation was. "I love Mexico. Rich culture. Kind hombres and mujeres. It's got sexy, grande titted muchachas that have the remarkable art to melt the macho exterior of any man!" I sat in hush-hush censorship, listening, wathching the gulped Asadero spirtz from his mouth. He continued, "it's depraved, degenerate, socially perverse, and it's God's intoxicated oversight. I love it!" I took a puff from my cigarette. I didn't care how his vacation was. "It's the land of slapdash burritos and over-sized hats," I impolitely, bluntly added. Oops.

"HEY! Show some respect!" He bellowed. Asadero erupted onto the woven Tabriz Persian carpet. "Put that coffin nail out! You don't need to include me with the foul-putrid clothes and the sickly, ill health." Awww. His feelings were hurt. The two men were still ranting in the cookery. "You don't think i read the absured, yet rigorous warning on the pack everytime i get ansy to flick the bic?" I smart-alecky asked, followed with an additional puff. "They're my breakfast of champions," i cued in. "Mine's the labia majora," he piggybacked. "Two juicy strips of bacon!" The discussion between the two men in the cookery reduced to a soft-pedal play down. "Did you stay with Auntie Alberta in Toluca?" I already knew the answer. I slopped the remnant of my cigarette in the ashtray. He explained how her villa was a filthy trumpery. Plagued with nasty, repugnant cockroach civilizations. He said he counted eleven creeping the ceramic tile while he was gorging a cereal muffin. "Sprinkle equal amounts of castile and baking soda in the red zones," I constructively diagramed. "The olive oil and sodium hydroxide in the castile attracts the roaches like a video game charms an oriental kid. The roaches consume the baking soda, which will expand in their bodies, causing them to go boom-boom." "I'd have to care enough to ever remember that," he snarled out. Fat fuck. The two men were done conversing. "Gentlemen." The indistinguishable fella' said as he made pass to adieu. He smelt like bargain bin cologne and a pack of menthols. The other man in the two-way conference, the supplementary, accustom one, was none other than The Boss. The Cairo Contemporary Track Arm Recliners fashioned with cumbersome bicast leather. The vexatious handcrafted heirloom quality grandfather clock. The woven Tabriz Persian carpet spattered with Asadero. All in which accommodated in a luxurious, affluent 13,000 square foot home belong to, and boasted by The Boss. The Boss. He exercises direction and reaches resolutions.He gives the orders in an aloof, domineering manner. He's standard textbook definition. He wholeheartedly greeted Sergio and myself. "Well pinch my nipples, and twist them until they bleed or bruise! The apples of my eye... my two fair-haired job-holders!" Sergio boorishly broke discourse. He bluntly asked, "who was that cloudy, ominous bloke that just bailed?" Dubiously, The Boss replied. "Oh, he... he's an old crony. A G. I. buddy. We both were permanents till 1975 in a north Nam detention camp." I've heard the epic folktale before. The Boss was serving a thirteen month tour in Vietnam. His

detachment of outfits were bathing in the Mekong river, when they unfortunatelly hit upon Nam dick. Nam dick is a venereal contamination that causes a man's "love log" to look like a block of swiss cheese. He says the agitation from the inflammation and irritability was the cause for his capture. I'm not sure how much of the story i believe. "Nam was hell," The Boss heedlessly put in mind. Once again, Sergio placed in his nonessential opinion. "I didn't like him. He was ignorant, indicating, and smelt like bottled bath water." He smelt like bargain bin cologne and a pack of menthols. "I'm aware of it," The Boss agreed. He persisted with, "it's pretty unpropitious. Our poker buddies say he's a walking, hazardous, environ-holocaustic cologne cloud... nevertheless, he's a crackerjack comrade." "He's ducky butter," Sergio uttered out. Don't worry, I didn't know what ducky butter was either. Apparently, according to the Sergio Hernandez book of word meanings, ducky butter is the creamy, buttery, film-like substance produced by the combining sweats of an unwashed scrotum and an unwiped asshole. Disgusting? I know. The Boss didn't appreciate it either. I had to shovel in, and interrupt Mr. Fat fuck dictionary. "Shhh," i clued in. And of course, he felt the need to reciprocate. "Who bronzed your balls, and crowned you with a dainty tiara, Walken!? Don't talk to me like i'm your foot-in-mouth, slipshod MUT!" Stale Asadero discharged from his loud mouth. Slipshod mut. That's what conjured up my intention for this cattle-call pow-wow. I wasn't in this biz amass for a stopover. I merely was in this inhabitance to ask Sergio Hernandez a clear and understandable favor. "That reminds me," i said, referring to his comment he made about a careless, scruffy dog. "I'm going to ask Littles to move in with me. Unfortunately, her supersensative immune system means Mr. Babaloo needs a fresh place to squat." That's right. The Old English muzzled face Pug that laggards by Sergio's rear, is befittingly my best friend. He has always adored fat fuck's company. Why? I don't know... "Sure!" Sergio replied with incitement, forgetting the hush-up i threw at him. "I love the rumpled, little fawn. He sounds like me when he snorts," he added. It wasn't a definite yet. I had to dart it by you first. "You owe me though." The four ruinous words that lurched from his mouth concluding our discourse. And that was the favor. To care for my fucking dog. The shrimpy little favor that got you and i into this colossal, grisly mess. My line of work is a promise arrangement. It's a record of settlement. It's a compact stipulation. There is no disagreement or misunderstanding. We have a basis we subsequent.

Our own commandments. First and foremost, we function only under The Boss. He arranges the jobs and furnishes them. We go directly to him. We do not pop-quiz questions, and burn third-degree. He tells us only what he wants us to know. Next in line, we make it abrupt, and aim to be in apple pie-order. It puzzles me how the boss can be so ill-advised, always gawking at how much a vulgarian slob Hernandez is. Hernandez calls his sanguinary butchery an imaginative knack, which brings us to our hindmost principles of behavior. No rubberneck on-lookers, and no muddled disorder. If we endure by these guidelines, we get a shakeout greater than granny so-and-so's 401(k). I'm so sorry.